Son of A Preacherman
by amor-remanet
Summary: Moments in the romance of Castiel Novak, preacher's son & librarian, and Dean Winchester, his favorite pain in the ass. Civilians AU; continuation of "Being Good Isn't Always Easy." SLASH, addict!Cas; future sides: GabrielxCrowley, BelaxJo, & SamxRuby.
1. Light A Candle, Curse The Glare

After their tryst in the library, Dean insists on walking Castiel back to his dormitory — "It's the gentlemanly thing to do," he points out with a shrug, even though Talbot Hall sits in the other direction from Dean's room, despite Castiel's declaration that he doesn't need an escort and that it's better if Dean doesn't see his room. Dean responds by trying to grab Castiel's backpack, which he does not succeed in doing. Perhaps Castiel isn't some muscle-bound jock, but he can carry his own things — and, besides, Dean has his own backpack to worry about. Regardless of who carries what, they leave the library together, and Castiel pauses to lock up behind them. The custodial staff has off tonight anyway, and it's just as well; the only names on for the late shift are Novak and Winchester, Castiel wouldn't want them figuring out who had sex between the stacks.

As they wander up the path and past the barren trees, it starts to snow — like they really needed more of that, with another layer of shimmery flakes lilting down onto the other piles of powder. Salt crunches under their shoes, but Castiel supposes that it's better the grating sound than slipping on ice; they pass the dining hall that specializes in diner fare and to-go orders, and they pass the long trellis that goes up a separate path to Harvelle's main offices, with the leafless branches twining around the wood. They say nothing about the bottle of pills Dean found, or about how Castiel put them back into his pocket before they left, refusing to leave them behind. Going down a little hill brings them to Talbot's Tudor-style brick building, overlooking the dormitories further down; Castiel uses his student ID to get them in and, leading Dean to the staircase, he tries to tune out the other young man's complaints about the lack of elevators.

"…all I'm saying is that practically every other place on campus has a damn elevator," he gripes, as they round a corner. Castiel points out that they hardly need the assistance getting up three flights. "Need it, no — but I didn't say anything about _needing it_. I just _want_ it."

Castiel sighs. "Then you should feel lucky that I didn't get housed on the fourth floor. …I almost had them relocate me. The view up there is better."

"Cas, seriously… you are _insane_."

With a little chucke, Castiel leads Dean down the corridor to his room, without further acknowledging whether or not Dean has a point. The haze of sex is still thick inside his head, and he doesn't really wish to argue with Dean right now, not when they're effectively collaborators — conspirators, thick as thieves, fighting together against their homophobic fathers by defiling the library. On his door is the same purple construction paper that his RA put there, with his name written on it in glitter and red marker; hanging just above it is the poster of Nina Simone that he picked up at a yard sale. He lets them in with the clink of his key in the lock — he flips on the lights that came with the room — but it's not until Dean follows him in and makes a sound of audible discomfort that Castiel remembers why he doesn't normally bring people over.

The translucent orange bottles rest against the back of his desk, stacked up in a pyramid, the same way that Castiel's seen beer cans stacked in other people's rooms. He sets his backpack by the door and busies himself with the needless task of rearranging his bookshelf, of picking out the library books that he has until tomorrow to return. He tries ignoring the sound of Dean disassembling the structure, narrating as he picks through the different bottles — "Adderall… Adderall… _more_ Adderall… Jesus Christ, Cas, you know this stuff is like cocaine with a PG label, don't you?" Castiel shrugs, and stays focused on his books. "Even more _Adderall_," Dean continues — and then he stops. "…_Not_ Adderall."

Castiel swallows thickly, and starts rearranging his science-fiction paperbacks — alphabetically by author's last name, instead of alphabetically by title as he's had them, then arranged chronologically by publication date — but Dean thumps on the side of the shelf, and he has to look up into those green, _green_ eyes. "So… as far as I know," he says, "Zoloft's not a study drug." Castiel concedes that it is not. "You want to tell me why you've got it? And why the prescribing doc isn't your Doctor Feelgood down in town?"

Matter-of-factly, Castiel sighs and explains: "Try being gay…" He puts the Heinlein back on the shelf; he only has the one, anyway — _Stranger In A Strange Land_… "and try living with a vocally religious father…" Next, he re-shelves the HG Wells, and wonders if he shouldn't just sell them at the annual February book drive… "who, by the way, would all but kill you if he knew, and who has no qualms about calling homosexuality an abomination unto God." The Asimov's going to need more time to get it right. Castiel simply lumps all those books together and makes a mental note to look up the exact publishing chronology later. "…And figuring it out in high school, which is bad enough on its own? Feeling worthless and helpless, moreover feeling _hopeless_…" The collection of Philip K. Dick shows the same story: he can alphabetize them, but, for the life of him, Castiel can't remember the order in which they got published. "Not to mention figuring this out in a _religious_ high school…"

He shoves his _The Stars My Destination_ back into place with the other Bester novels. By now, Dean's gone silent; the sound of paper hitting wood sounds louder than it is, clear as a bell, like a smack to the face. "…All I am saying, Dean, is that sometimes, in desperate situations, a sixteen-year-old might look at a razor and find it very appealing."

Dean says nothing back, not immediately; instead, he pries Castiel's closer hand away from the anthology of women sci-fi authors and nudges down the long black sleeve. The scar he finds is faded — not entirely, but it _has_ had almost five years to heal — no longer violent red, but a more passive-aggressive pink. Castiel shivers, and tries to wrestle his wrist away — but Dean's hold is too strong for him. He expects a smack, or another lecture on not doing things that Dean considers dangerous, but what he gets is the soft, warm brush of Dean's lips against the remnant of his wound. Dean repeats this process with the other scar; both kisses come tenderly, with pensive sighs on the skin they leave behind.

For all he wants to lean in and just claim Dean's mouth as his own again, Castiel turns and looks out the window. The snow's falling faster now — their last day before break might be a snow day, at this rate. "Why don't you stay the night?" he whispers. "…Walking across campus at this hour might be unsafe. Especially with the snow."

Dean responds with a kiss on Castiel's lips, and when they sleep, it is tangled together on the mattress.


	2. Everybody's Looking For Something

The first thing Dean notices on the walk to campus health services is that, for not being that much shorter than him, Castiel is not very heavy, a fact that makes Dean want to drag the other boy home to Kansas and try to pass him off as "just a friend," if only so Mom can sit Cas down and fucking feed him. In all likelihood, Dean could just pick Cas up and carry him down to Fuller House with one arm at his back and one underneath his knees — but the dumb bastard insists on walking, even given the extent to which he's leaning against Dean and the ferocity with which he wraps his skinny arm around Dean's shoulder. Snow crunches as they traverse the paths, and Cas leaves a dribbling trail of — and Dean can't help wondering why they didn't just have a day off. It's the end of the semester, for God's sake, and the custodial staff has obviously decided to skive off.

Getting down to Fuller shows a similar story, albeit a more discouraging one. Cas breaks off from Dean and drops the bloody snowball he's been holding to his nose, swearing up one side and down the other that he can get himself inside — until he tries the door and finds it locked. He jostles the handle; it still doesn't budge. Jerking the door gets him all of nowhere — and finally, he pulls a cellphone out of the hip pocket of his black jeans (which look like their designer wanted them to fit tighter than they do). Dean says nothing about the fact that Cas has health services' number in his phonebook, not even when he slumps against the door and lifts up the leg that Travis kicked to get the weight off of it, and certainly not when they hear the loud ringing echo out of the building. Asking questions, Dean knows from experience, has great potential not to go well, either by inciting anger or by simply taking you somewhere you didn't want to go.

Hanging up his phone, shoving it back into his pocket, Cas half-sighs; the underlying groan takes over when he makes the mistake of stomping the ground in frustration. He staggers away from the door and, without waiting for permission, Dean comes to catch him, slipping Cas's arm back around his shoulders. "Who the Hell decided to close health services, but not cancel classes?" Cas gripes, leaning into Dean a little further this time. "I mean, honestly — what kind of harebrained, half-witted, moronic—"

"Do you wanna chill out with the damn… righteous indignation kick until we know if you're concussed or not?" Dean points out, brow furrowing as he looks down into the blue-eyed glare he's getting. "Hey…" he tacks on, almost apologetically. "I'm just saying, Cas. You probably shouldn't stress yourself after that—"

"You mean after your friends kicked me, got me in the stomach and the nose — which might be broken — took I don't even know what to the back of my head—"

"That would've been Travis's steel-toed boots."

"Then we are going to the hospital, because I am almost certainly concussed. Let's get walking."

Well, who is Dean to argue with that kind of logic? Holding Cas around the waist, letting Cas stumble along beside him because it's unlikely that his opinion on the matter of 'to pick the librarian up and bodily move him, or not to get a new one ripped' has changed since they first set off, hoping to have a nice chat with that bitch of a head nurse, Dean sets off down Willow Drive. They walk past the smaller housing units — the ones that hold maybe ten people, have working kitchens and bathrooms that don't service an entire hall, but you have to clean everything yourself — and head down the hill; the main dining hall, the post office, and the science center pass by them, just like the cars that come and go, no doubt skipping out for break early.

"Is it true the science building's haunted?" Cas asks as they take a right at the stop sign that marks the end of the road, making their way onto a sidewalk, which heads down another hill, leading them into town. Dean arches an eyebrow down at the other guy; he's pretty sure that he's never met a preacher's kid who believed in ghosts and things like that. Even Tessa — daughter of faith-healing Pastor Roy, back at home, and his wife Sue-Anne — didn't play into that kind of stuff, and she had some pretty strange taste. Cas shrugs. "It's nothing — I mean, you don't have to answer if you don't want to. It's just… one of my friends mentioned it, that he was down there, working late on a project, and some… strange things started happening."

"What kind of strange things?" Dean inquires, trying harder to think of who Castiel's friends are. He can't honestly recall any time he's seen the kid with anyone else, much less anyone else who acted friendly with him. Pretty much everyone seems to have the same attitude as Wayne and Travis: Novak's kid is a fucking freak, and it's in everyone's best interests to stay away from him, unless you want to go and remind him of where he stands with the rest of us.

"Well. What he said," Cas explains, looking up at Dean instead of at his feet, "was that he was in one of the chemistry labs, experimenting with this process he's devised to emulate the Philosopher's Stone…" He trails off briefly, at the bemused way Dean frowns and wrinkles his nose. "It was a mythical construct that could grant eternal life and turn lead into gold—"

"Like in Harry Potter?" Dean doesn't think before raising this question; he just spits it out, remembering Sammy's extended phase of trying to be a wizard because he read about magic in those freaking books.

Cas sighs in a way that suggests he's heard this question before and has grown increasingly tired of it. "Yes, like in Harry Potter. …The British edition is actually titled Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone; Scholastic and the American editors made JK Rowling change it because… I think they thought 'Sorcerer's Stone' sounded more interesting, or something." Dean has to admit: it does pack more of a verbal punch than Philosopher's Stone — and then he has to ask how the Hell Castiel's friend is trying to get the eternal life part. "He's not, not really anyway. …He used to have a sort of fascination with living forever, and when we were seven, maybe eight, he tried to tell me that he'd invented a chocolate-covered pill to cure death… but it turned out to be a raisin. …Which I didn't find out until he'd already talked me into jumping my bike into this rather large abandoned construction site near my father's house." Dean snickers, until Cas concludes: "…while I was already halfway to the ground."

Dean demands: "Jesus Christ, Cas — I… what the Hell kind of friend does shit like that?"

He just shrugs again and shakes his head. "Gabriel has a certain sense of humor, and he didn't think that I'd actually agree to do it. …And, to be fair, I'd accidentally wrecked an elaborate Lego structure he'd worked on for months, and I wasn't that badly hurt."

For a moment, Dean thinks to ask how Cas defines not that badly hurt, considering he's currently trying to walk around with a likely concussion, but he doesn't get the time to take advantage of that notion: as they come to the bottom of the hill, approaching the stretch of sidewalk that takes them to the bridge over the freeway, Cas hits a patch of black ice with his good leg. He stumbles, and slides around; he even yelps — but Dean manages to catch him before he hits the ground. He wants to say something — several witty possibilities run through his mind: It's okay, I've got you; Whoa, there, Tiger, quit trying to run away on me; You just naturally graceful, aren't you — but instead, Dean finds himself distracted. As he stares down at the pallor on Cas's cheeks, and the earnest fear that's widened those blue eyes… Dean swallows thickly, trying to ignore the wrenching feeling he gets in the bottom of his stomach, as though someone filled it with ice and stuck it on a rollercoaster, trying to push away the compulsive, burning need he feels to protect Castiel — the only thing that snaps him out of it is Cas himself:

"Uh, Dean?" he points out, gently nudging his hip into Dean's. "I don't think that standing here is the best idea…"

"Yeah, right… Of course."

Dean gets them onto the bridge and Castiel asks if he can have a moment to sit and catch his breath. It's not a bad idea, Dean supposes, not least because he's been up and moving around on the bad leg for a while now, which can't be any good for him. For all it's cold, and for all the trees along the highway look like they're dead, and for all Cas has to slide some snow out of the way before he sits down, the weather really isn't so bad today. The sunlight's practically white, like it's been stripped down to its basics, what part sneaks out past the half-baked clouds, anyway — and trying to stare up at it makes Dean flinch, look back down to Castiel, at the pained contortion of his forehead and the dazed look in his eyes that Dean's been too busy to notice until now — oh, shit.

"Cas?" Dean prods, reaching out a hand but hesitating before he rethinks putting it on Cas's shoulder. "Hey, Cas, come on — talk to me."

"It's nothing," he lies, shaking his head and wincing. "Just a headache."

Fuck. "Can you still see? Is your vision blurry at all?"

"What kind of questions are those?"

"Just answer them, Cas!" Even in the best possible scenario with the new symptom, they have to walk the three blocks to Saint Pete's quickly.

"No!" Cas snaps. "My vision is not blurry, I can still see perfectly fine — now, what are you going on about?"

Dean stands and holds out a hand to help Cas up. "They're questions you're going to get at the hospital anyway," he explains, getting Cas back into position to use him as a human crutch. "They're supposed to help figure out how bad a concussion is."

They start to walk, and Cas huffs pensively. "Do I want to know how you know so much about concussion diagnostics?" he asks, at the end of the bridge.

Dean shakes his head. "Probably not."

The next three blocks pass in nearly perfect silence, marred only by the occasional grunt from Cas as the pace picks up. Explaining what happened to the nurse at the check-in desk is goddamn surreal: Dean jumps in, starting to tell her about how Travis and Wayne roughed him up… but when he gets to his own involvement, he chokes up. Some guilty sensation stings at the insides of his lungs — and Cas jumps in to say that Dean's a concerned friend and helped him get down from campus. As the nurse eyes them — more than a little suspiciously — Dean puts on his best 'we are lying, but oh, God, please believe us, we are just too damn charming for you not to' grin. The nurse rolls her eyes, demands Castiel's wrist, and slaps a purple plastic bracelet on it. Adjusting his hold on Cas's hip, Dean leads him over to the rows of chairs and sits them down. He wants to say something, anything — but the lack of words between them drags on for far too long, until Dean wonders if all he can hear anymore is the ticking of the clock on the wall and the obnoxious teenager picking ringtones for her iPhone without regard for the other people here.

"You know, you don't have to stay with me," Cas finally announces, keeping his voice down and glancing around as though he expects his father to come bursting through the doors at any minute.

"Yeah, well, I want to." Looking away from a lady who's come in with her sick kid, Dean sighs. "Cas," he whispers, just for the two of them to hear, because it's now or never and he needs to get this off his chest. "You know… Anything I said back there with the guys, and jerking on your arm… getting you on your knees like that… You know I didn't mean it, right?"

Cas nods. "And I told you that I forgive you." He wrinkles his nose, looking Dean up and down; his hand feels right at home on Dean's shoulder. "If you hadn't stepped in, they might have hung around and managed to do worse. Compared to other possibilities, this set of injuries isn't all that bad."

Dean doesn't know if he has the heart to point out that not all that bad still isn't good — but then one of the nurses calls out, "Castiel Novak," and he finds he doesn't have to. As he leads Cas back — feeling something like a hug when he snakes Cas's arm around his shoulders — Dean appraises the woman who's going to be looking out for him today — her smile looks genuine, if tired, and her scrubs have cartoon puppies on them. At least, he figures, she's better than the stupid bitches at the ER back in Lawrence.


	3. Let Hope Burn In Your Eyes

As soon as Mom gets him back home from the airport on Saturday night, Dean can smell the whiskey and tequila — he doesn't even need to venture into the kitchen, and he knows: Dad's been drinking again. He takes his suitcase and his backpack up to his room, doesn't stay there long; as far as he knows, the combination of Jim, Jack, Johnnie, and Jose — or whatever else is running through his old man's system — might bubble up while he's reminiscing, looking at the shelf full of his old track tea trophies and the ceramic angel Mom gave him for his first birthday… and if Dean's up here, then Mom or Sammy will be the ones downstairs to deal with it. Dean sighs, glancing at his senior year team photo. They went to States that year. Dean took first in the 5k run — and Dad still bitched to all his friends at the shop about how much he wished that his boy played baseball or football.

Heading back down the steps, Dean looks at all the pictures, at their unnaturally clean plastic covers — Mom and Dad's wedding day (with Mom already showing the pregnancy that gave them Dean); Dad and his Marine buddies, the squad he served with in Desert Storm, an endless plateau of American settlements on Iraqi land stretching out behind them; selections of Sam's and Dean's history of school photos… Dean pauses at his own, from third grade, and runs his fingers down the surface, stares at the half-dead looking smile (with two teeth out at once; "the Tooth Fairy" gave him two dollars that time), the brightly colored Goodwill sweater vest, the towheaded kid who could've told somebody, anybody, about what had started happening when he went home, who could've put a stop to it and saved Sam and Mom as well… and who didn't do it. With a grimace, Dean lets his hand fall back to his side; he briefly looks into the kitchen, but seeing that Dad's on glass number God-only-knows, he tromps to the living room instead, where Sam's already sitting on the sofa, with a book out and cartoons on.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean says by way of announcing his arrival; Sam mutters a greeting back, but doesn't break himself away from whatever page he's on. Without waiting for permission, he flops next to his kid brother (who's going to be eighteen in May, and, really, isn't much of a kid anymore since he sprouted up to be taller than everybody else, not like Dean will ever admit this aloud). Turning his head, he looks down at the paperback that's got Sam so engrossed. "The Stars My Destination?" he asks. "Man, you're the second person I've found reading that in about as many days — does it have a recipe for vodka in it or what?"

"The escapism probably makes it appealing," Sam suggests, dog-earing his place and going off into one of his rants about the plot, the characters, where the author probably got his inspiration, and then some — "…and, really, I think a large part of what makes it so interesting is that you've got this total loser, like… borderline physically dead loser, and he's just trying to get revenge for himself, but then it changes to this concern for keeping people from being taken advantage of…" Sam pauses, shrugs. "I guess it's just fun to get out of your head and pretend to be a hero for a while…" Trailing off, he tilts his head, as something finally hits him. "Wait. Who do you know who's reading it? Your friends at school are more like… male-posturing meatheads."

Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head, because he knows that Sam has a more-than-valid point, but acknowledging that makes his lungs writhe a bit too much after what happened to Cas yesterday. "Just this guy," he lies. "We work at the library together—"

"Since when do you work at the library?"

"Since the jackass I was TA-ing for decided he didn't like my attitude, smart-ass, now can I finish telling you about Castiel?"

"His name is Castiel?"

"Yeah, his dad's a preacher or something—"

"Like Reverend Roy?"

"No, like…" Dean sighs, and takes a pause to think of the best analogy: "Like John Lithgow in Footloose. He's the spiritual aid guy on campus, advisor for the Christian Union, teaches some of the religion courses, and as far as his son's said, he's anti-everything fun."

Frowning and arching an eyebrow down at Dean, Sam asks, "…Dean, have you even bothered looking up what Castiel means?" As soon as Dean shakes his head no, he gets another rant: "Castiel is an angel from medieval occult lore — he's supposedly one of the angels who presides over Thursday, and some writers conflate him with Cassiel, one of the rulers of the planet Saturn. I mean… that's some seriously obscure literature, too—"

"So how do you know about it?" Dean points out.

"I had to do a project on angelology for this course I took at LCC." At Sam's entirely matter-of-fact expression, Dean has to stop and wonder when his little brother started taking classes at Lawrence Community College — it makes sense, of course it does… Sammy's always been a freaking genius, and since Stevenson High won't let him just graduate already, he has to get intellectual stimulation somehow (especially since no one Dean knows would ever touch the kid). …But as he looks Sam over, scrutinizing every detail of his appearance, Dean isn't sure this is best for Sam — aside from getting taller, it looks like Sam's lost weight since August, and his eyes have the appearance of someone who hasn't slept in a week. Ignoring the thumping sound that comes from the kitchen — which could be Dad's glass or the bottle that he's drinking from — Dean opens his mouth to speak, but Sam cuts him off instead—

"All I'm saying is that it sounds like Pastor Castiel's-father—" Dean interrupts to give their last name. "…Okay, fine. All I'm saying is that it sounds like Pastor Novak is more than just your average preacher man."

"Yeah, well, his son's not exactly the average preacher's kid, either—"

Sam cuts Dean off with a scoff that tries its best, and fails, to be a laugh. "What standard are you judging him by — Tessa? …In case you haven't noticed, Dean, she's not exactly the average preacher's kid, either — between the tarot cards, the tea-leaf reading, what she does with Anna—"

"Cram a sock in it, Poindexter," Dean snaps, a nervous chuckle getting out of his throat. "…Anyway, I don't know. Cas is… I guess I don't really have words for it, but he's special, okay?" An awkward silence falls between them as Sam considers this, looks down at the sofa between his legs, and gnaws on his lower lip in that way he does when he's thinking too hard — and when he looks back to Dean, there's a recognition in his eyes. He knows — he has to — that expression only comes up when he knows something… Dean swallows thickly and starts to say, "Go get your coat and the car keys. We'll get dinner at Rufus's—" but the sound of a plate crashing in the kitchen cuts him off and he turns his head around fast enough to make his neck ache.

"Damn it, John!" Mom yelps. "You know not to just sneak up behind me like that!"

Dean looks to Sam and dashes to the kitchen, where Dad looms over Mom, practically pinning her to the counter; the shattered porcelain's scattered all around the hardwood floor, a mess around his work boots and her bare feet. She glares up at him, eyes burning and blonde hair an all asunder mess, tumbling out of the bun she had it in earlier; the handprint on her cheek is still bright red. Dad growls something that sounds like I love you, Mary and cups her jaw like a boxer in the ring, grabbing it so tight it might bruise come morning — "Dad!" Dean shouts at him. Dad stumbles as he turns around, and even though they're bloodshot and booze-soaked, Dean refuses to look away from them; his pulse pounds in his ears like vicious drums, and he can't hear whatever Dad says as he comes closer, but that doesn't stop Dean from snapping back: "Jesus Christ, go have a glass of water and lie down!"

John brandishes his finger — the same way he used to threaten when Dean was younger — he slurs his menacing remarks together, and when Dean refuses to back down — "Goddamn it, Dad; you're drunk. Go. lie. down! Or at least leave Mom alone, you know you two fight when you get like this…" — a fist comes flying at his nose.

"Oh my God, Dean!" Sam's heavy footfalls come toward the rest of them at a jerky sort of sprint — if Dean wanted to, he could pick apart exactly how Sam's technique is off… but the blood running down his nose provides a distraction, as do Sam's hands getting underneath Dean's arms to help him to his feet.

"Sammy!" John barks — there's a pause that follows, and the air crackles with an electric burn. Dean focuses on Dad only, as he rocks on his feet; Mom and Sam don't let their eyes leave him either. "Sammy…" he repeats. "Go… go, take the car, and get your brother cleaned up.

Sam nods. "Yes, sir."

The ride in the Impala passes without words — save the ones that come from Robert Plant belting "When the Levee Breaks." Dean has nothing to say, and he can practically hear the questions buzzing around Sam's skull, but the apprehension presses Sam's lips into a tense, white line — it's not until they're in the ER's parking lot that, in a low voice (as though Dad's lurking somewhere, waiting to go off on him as well), Sam asks, "…What're you gonna tell them this time?"

Dean sighs, wincing as he reaches to rub his nose and accidentally upsets it. "Bar fight? Snow football game gone bad? …Oh, how about that I walked into a door?"

"You told them the bar fight story last time," Sam reminds him. Nodding, Dean agrees — and concludes that the tried and true I walked into a door line gets to be the story of the night. "…Dean," Sam whispers. "You don't have to keep protecting him like this."

"Yeah, I do, Sammy," Dean informs him, getting out into the streetlight-illuminated night, catching snowflakes in his golden hair. "Dad doesn't mean it when he does this. He loves us — he loves Mom. It's just the booze, and the stress at work, and… Whatever, there's no making him take it back. You coming in?"

Sam shakes his head and forces a wobbly smile. "Just… get fixed up quick so we can still go to Rufus's for dinner."

Dean grins. "You bet your ass, little brother. I'll be out before you know it."


	4. What Is Love?

Pastor Novak considers himself to be an open-minded sort of man, especially given the common misconceptions that people have about him and his fellow Christians — Castiel knows this because his father has, for as long as he can remember, spoken at length about how open-minded he is while organizing protests at mosques, gay youth centers, and Planned Parenthood clinics. He's even been known to fight against the "poisonous" notion that men and women who take vows not to let religious views impact their decision-making can help the mentally ill, though as he leaves Doctor Davidson's office, heading for his father's sedan, Castiel supposes it's to the pastor's credit that this extracurricular disapproval has for the most part stopped in recent years. For all Davidson attends his father's parish and proudly displays a silver cross on his office wall, he is still a mental health professional; it must count for something that Castiel's father pays for his session.

It's already getting dark as Castiel slips into the passenger seat to the sound of his father's questions — how did this session go, how is Doctor Davidson doing, how does he think Castiel is doing, how much longer will they need to keep up with this Zoloft business — and as they pull out onto the road, the course of the conversation changes to the one group of people his father is earnestly open-minded for: Catholics. Apparently, they can't just go home — despite having been out running errands and going to appointments since eight this morning. "We're just stopping by Saint Sebastian's for a few minutes, Castiel," Pastor Novak points out with a sigh, going through the green light toward home and toward the Catholic church. "Father Murphy and I need to talk about of business concerning our annual New Year's faith festival."

Castiel only barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes, both here and when they finally enter the church. It's nothing truly personal, but he hates the patronizing way that the priest asks him questions — the way he asks how are you doing, and how's school, and any girls managed to catch your eye — we can find you a nice, Catholic one here, you know with the lilt at the end and the carelessly extended vowels, with the tone that suggests he thinks of Castiel as something soft and breakable. When Father Murphy takes Dad into his office, Castiel allows himself a sigh of relief at finally having some time to himself. Finding the doors into the chapel unlocked, he lets himself in; it's cold in here, and the low light gives him a comfort, coming only from the lamps behind the altar, which illuminate the elaborate nativity scene, and the rack of candles that sits along the eastern wall.

For all he's been raised Methodist, Castiel has always seen an appeal in the dramatics and the symbolism of the Catholic Mass — not to mention the statue of Saint Sebastian's Heavenly patron, a long-legged youth with curls that reach just past his shoulders, both slender and muscular, dressed only in a cloth around his waist (for decency's sake, Castiel imagines), tied to a post and punctured by arrows all up and down his perfect body. The contorted expression on the saint's face, he supposes, is meant to be one of pain, but as Castiel examines it now, he sees an odd resemblance to the way Dean looked that night when they debauched the library floor, which makes his lungs writhe around most uncomfortable and his heart start beating like rain on a tin roof — biting his lip, Castiel turns his eyes away from the ceramic Sebastian and back to the candlelight. Fewer than half of them are lit, but the ones that are burn so persistently, shedding their little glimmers on the church like some pocket constellation — he takes a five-dollar bill our of his pocket and sticks it in the black donation box, and he lights a candle in the center of the rack.

Kneeling on the plush rest, Castiel inhales deeply, watching the flames flicker as he does so; closing his eyes and clenching his hands together, he hates the uncertain way that his exhale quivers on its way out. "Father," he whispers, "or God… whichever? …If You're listening, please… I need some guidance, if You will spare me some." As he opens his eyes, Castiel looks up to the burnished wood of the ceiling's rafters, and lets himself get lost in the way they criss-cross. "…Why do I keep feeling like this Father? And about Dean Winchester? This is going to be another mess… like Andy all over again, and I haven't forgotten how that went… I know it's wrong, Father, I know that; Dad's made that abundantly clear… but there are plenty of nice enough young ladies at Harvelle, and none of them are bad people in the slightest, and none of them have spent the weeks Dean has getting under my skin… But when I look at him, I just… I can't help it. I feel like he knows me better than I know myself, and his eyes smolder, and… I didn't mean for this to happen, You know that I didn't, so please, please… just help me. Tell me what to do."

Castiel shudders as he finishes his prayer, feeling the uplifting in his chest as he tries to reach out and spiritually find the guidance that he asked for; when there's no tingle of inspiration in his chest, he looks around for any sign that might be coming. For a long moment, nothing happens: Saint Sebastian keeps his silent vigil, melted wax drips from a candle that's been burning for Castiel doesn't even know how long, and the nativity's infant Jesus smiles his placid, plastic smile, entirely unaffected by the world outside this church. Sighing, Castiel lights another candle and prepares to pray again — for it must be that he hasn't prayed well enough, or believed enough to have his request be heard — but a gentle, lilting voice interrupts before he can start:

"Castiel, my son," Father Murphy tells him, "come along now. Your father's ready to head home."

The Crowley house and its adjacent kennel — occupied by Mr Alexander Crowley III (previously of Great Britain), his wife Elaine, their son, Alexander James IV, who prefers to be known by his initials or his surname, and the pureblooded bulldogs that they breed — sits atop a hill on the outskirts of a scenic town a few miles north of where Castiel lives with his father; as he pulls the car into the long driveway, he only sees two others — and neither of them belong to Crowley's parents. On the left sits the black Bentley that somehow — Castiel has never figured this mystery out — never gets broken into when Crowley leaves it parked on campus; on the right is Gabriel Lyesmith's neon purple eyesore of a Chrysler. Castiel looks down at Chuck once he's parked behind the Bentley; his friend's brow is furrowed and, behind the thick, black frames of his glasses, his eyes are wide.

"His… AJ's parents know… they know that he's having us over, right?" Chuck stammers. His glasses slip down his nose and, fumbling, he pushes them back up. "…Are they even in town?"

"It would appear not," Castiel supposes, turning off the engine. As it quiets, he thinks of what might wait for him when he gets back home; Dad knows that he's come here for New Year's Eve instead of tagging along to Saint Sebastian's for the faith festival — but returning home in the morning will probably bring a lecture and a half. "Then again, when has that ever stopped him?"

They tread up to the door and their bell-ringing is met with the sound of Crowley shouting: "Oh, bloody Hell! …Gabriel!"

The sideways glances Chuck and Castiel trade have equal concern beneath them, and for a moment, Castiel worries that his unkempt little friend might give himself an anxiety-induced heart attack. Chuck forces a smile and pushes his glasses up again, arching an eyebrow at the door and probably trying to think of something witty to say. For saying that writing is so hard, he certainly tries to speak "like a novelist" as often as he possibly can, to the point that he even has that ridiculous phrase, which apparently means that he feels some compulsive call to say intelligent things that don't always suit him. He opens his mouth and then closes it again; then he repeats this action — and right as he starts to speak, the door flies open. Taller than Chuck but shorter than Castiel, brunette with hazel eyes that have a permanently mischievous glint, Gabriel Lyesmith leans against the doorframe with a yawn and a towel draped around his waist.

"Hey-lo, Tiny," he tells Chuck, a smirk springing up on his face; glancing up to Castiel, he adds on, "Baby Blues."

"You're wearing pajama pants," Castiel points out. Considering the weather, he thinks Gabriel ought to be more interested in covering up his bare torso, on which Castiel can see more than Gabriel's fair share of hickeys.

"Aren't you the observant one," Gabriel quips. "Come on in, boys. Crowley's just handling a little accident we had inside."

Following at Gabriel's back, Chuck and Castiel enter the house. Around them sit all the artifacts of Crowley's parents' wealth — the vases, the paintings, the statuettes… and the antique rug in the living room, where they find Crowley crouching over a suspicious smelling stain with a rag and a bottle of carpet cleaner, beside a puppy that looks all too pleased with itself. At the advent of new people, it yaps and comes sniffing around Chuck's legs — but his attentions are otherwise diverted to the deep kiss that Gabriel and Crowley share.

"Uh, not to be blunt or anything," Chuck interjects, "but since when are you two sleeping together?"

Gabriel shrugs. "Since we had some margaritas and some whiskey and wondered why we hadn't started — what's it to you?"

"We might not be sleeping together tonight," Crowley snaps playfully, "if I can't get this goddamn puppy stain out of my parents' goddamn RUG—"

"Baaabe, come on! What was I going to do — make the little guy go piss outside?"

"That is generally where our puppies call the bathroom, yes."

"But, baby! …It's cold outside!"

For this atrocious jest, Crowley takes a fist and thumps Gabriel on the thigh. The air between them seems to, for a moment, snap — and then they kiss again, at which Chuck loudly clears his throat. As his three friends devolve into a bickering match about the history of Gabriel and Crowley's decision to sleep together, Castiel feels light-headed and as though his stomach might fall out of him. Before he can think to stop himself, he says, to no one in particular, "…I'm sleeping with somebody too."

The squabbling ceases, and he finds himself scrutinized in awkward silence by three sets of arched eyebrows. Finally, Gabriel breaks the ice all over again, patting Crowley on the shoulder: "Babe, get these two seated. I'm going to go get the booze and then, this? …I've got to hear."

Castiel sighs as Crowley leads him to the sofa. He inhales deeply, and steadies himself, even as Chuck's shocked expression, the one that's quietly wondering if he's the only virgin left, refuses to mollify. …These are, Castiel remembers, his friends. If he can tell anyone about Dean, then he can tell them.


	5. Pretty As A Car Crash

"Well, this is quite a charming way to ring in the new year."

With a hand and an icepack over her (incredibly sore, which she is trying her best not to think about) left eye, Bela looks over to Jo, at the blonde waves cascading down her back… and at the fact that, ever the stubborn one, she is still reading that damn waiting room copy of Ladies' Home Journal with the smiling, ginger Stepford cunt from Desperate Housewives on the cover. This would be all well and good, Bela thinks, were it not for the fact that they're sitting in the emergency room, and the fact that she is tiring of holding this ice over her eye when it doesn't feel like it's helping the swelling, and the fact that Jo has paid her absolutely no attention since helping check her in. Jutting her lower lip out at her girl, Bela slumps to the side and puts her head on Jo's shoulder.

Jo sighs, sounding far too contemplative for six o'clock in the morning — much less six o'clock in the morning after they've been up all night protesting. "Did you know that you can use toothpaste to fight acne?" she informs Bela, her voice brighter than a bucket full of rainbows. "There's something about the peppermint that makes it great for your skin."

"Lovely," Bela deadpans. "Absolutely stunning. Can you buy that Risa girl in my calculus class a tube of Colgate and teach her how to take a shower already?"

Tapping the top of Bela's head, Jo smirks. "Be nice, Bells."

"But she's disruptive to my learning experience!" Bela points out, purposefully adding in the Veruca Salt whine that she's perfected since she started seeing Jo Harvelle, their university's founder's great-granddaughter — as intended, it gets her girl to snicker, and with another well-placed pout, Bela even gets Jo to put her magazine down and hold the icepack for her. Sighing, she gives her favorite blonde a nuzzle. "You know, that dick with the bricks might have detached my retina. That could be what the flashes of light were. And if it were anybody else—"

"My stars — if it isn't Miss Bela Talbot," someone interrupts her, right before succumbing to a fit of coughs that come from deep within his chest. Taking the ice back from Jo, Bela turns in her seat to see none other than Gabriel, who even from this far off, and even considering the injury to her eye, looks pale, and exhausted, and generally as though he's seen better days — not least because he has his arm draped over the campus pastor's blue-eyed son and is practically using the other boy as a human crutch. Putting on a wobbly smile, Gabriel waves at her. "Hey, Bela," he says, only coughing a little. "How's tricks?"

It takes her a moment to notice, but once she gets the first hints of it, she can smell the remnants of margaritas, whiskey, and peach schnapps reeking off of Gabriel from here; Castiel, at least, has the reliable, responsible scent of sobriety. "Oh, not so bad," Bela teases them, as Castiel brings Gabriel to sit opposite her and Jo. "A fire-breathing dragon might've detached my retina while I was saving Jo-punzel from a tower—"

"Jo's hair isn't long enough for her to be Rapunzel," Gabriel points out, his brow furrowing at her. Too drunk to function — she might have expected as much from him.

"She's just kidding, Bukowski." Rolling her eyes, Jo coaxes Bela's head back onto her shoulder, and holds the ice to Bela's eye again. "She got whanged in the face by some dude at the protest we went to last night."

"…Why were you at a protest last night?" Castiel asks, the first time he's said anything and, knowing him, possibly the last.

Jo and Bela shrug simultaneously. "It seemed like a better use of our time than chasing around after each other once we're too trashed to function," Bela suggests, and shoots the boy a smile.

Coming up from another hacking jag, Gabriel slurs, "Well, I had a looooong night, last night. …So much sex. AJ… Ladies, even wasted he has the stamina of the gods. …And Chuck swore that he's getting a girlfriend for Valentine's Day this year. again — and I mean, I love him t'death, he's like a brother to me, but… girlfriend!" Collapsing into Castiel's shoulder, Gabriel laughs like there's some invisible feather machine going at his ribcage. "I mean… am I right, or am I right?"

Ignoring him like one of the masters, Jo asks, "What about your New Year's, Cas?"

Castiel wrinkles his nose as if to say that it was nothing special. "Chuck and I played Mario Party and did shots to that ridiculous Twilight movie while Gabriel and Crowley debauched each other."

"His boyfriend wasn't here for him to have sex with," Gabriel informs the ladies with a snicker, utterly oblivious to the way Castiel proceeds to glare at him. "He's in Kansas with his daddy, and his mommy, and his little brother, and his beard, and his car, and — OW!" Now, Castiel gets glared at in return, and the expression that he gives Gabriel is, at best, unmoved. "What was that for, Blue Eyes?"

"You're being a brat." With a glance down at his shoulder, Castiel adds, "and you're drooling on my trench-coat."

Gabriel mutters a string of curses in at least four languages (including Mandarin), and Bela means to respond — but, instead she hears a nurse calling her name. "Well, boys," Jo tells them, helping Bela to her feet and trading off duty with the icepack. "It's been a great time, but we have to go see if my lady's retina got detached or if she's just being a drama queen."

It's not until a bit later, when they've gone through the pleasantries of describing to the nurse what happened and she's wandered off to get the doctor, that Bela leans down to Jo's ear and whispers, "I'm probably fine — but don't pretend for a second that you don't love my dramatics."

Jo, in her idiom, answers Bela with a kiss.


	6. Hanging All Her Hopes On The Stars

Dean doesn't want Tessa to come and pick him up on New Year's Eve, but Mom understandably doesn't want him driving around in the Impala so soon after having his nose broken — and one of his arms twisted on Christmas Eve, but hey, who's keeping score, besides the folks who keep Dean's medical records (and who give him increasingly funny looks when he shows up with new injuries)? At least, Dean figures, Dad hasn't hit Mom or Sammy, or hasn't since Dean's been home.

The sky's grown dark and starry as Dean climbs into the passenger seat of Tessa's hearse — for which he sometimes calls her Maude, as in Harold and Maude, her favorite movie since they were twelve — to the dulcet tones of whatever opera she's listening to today. As he fastens his seatbelt, she catches him cocking his eyebrow at the speakers, and she smiles that familiar, even smile. Tucking a piece of her long, black hair behind her ear, she explains, "It's Madame Butterfly. I thought some tragic romance was a good way to send this year packing."

She pulls out onto the road and takes off down it at a speed Dean can respect — though he's sure the cops, if any of them are out tonight, will take some kind of fucking issue with the fact that she's going fifteen over the speed limit when it's cold outside. "…You know that they're singing in Italian, right?" he finally asks.

"At the performances I've been to, they generally have translations flashing above the stage." Tessa's face remains impassive when whips around a left turn without much regard for their safety… but, hey, there wasn't any oncoming traffic, so, even if it's odd for her, it's not as though she cut somebody off. "More importantly, though, you don't need to understand it literally. Opera's all about the feeling."

For all he's heard that same explanation before — and for all he still doesn't really get her meaning — Dean guesses that she's got a point, since the soprano singing now might not be a Joan Jett or an Ann and Nancy Wilson, but she sure sounds pretty pissed off about something. When they come to a stop sign, Tessa ruffles Dean's hair and informs him that he's cute. They trade off catching each other up on their lives at school through the rest of the tedious preparations — parking at the liquor store, buying their twelve-pack of beer (and the peach schnapps, and the Black Jack, and the two six-packs of Bacardi Silver Signature Sangria, because Tessa has an over-fondness for booze that tastes like fruity soda), telling Johnny behind the counter that they won't get caught doing anything stupid — but Dean dances around the biggest revelation until they're parked out on the old field, sitting on the hood of her car, and he's had enough whiskey and beer that Tessa's talked him into trying one of her sangrias.

"Don't knock it 'til you've had one for yourself, sweetheart," she chides him, handing over the bottle. Taking the top in his leather jacket, he cracks it open, and as he's tipping back the first sip, she lets it slip: "I can't believe you still haven't told anyone what your father does to you." He nearly chokes on his fruity drink, and with her expression sympathetic underneath the full moon's light (and that from her headlights), she concludes, "That broken nose looks nasty."

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, well… giving my dad enough time with some tequila is like giving him a fully-loaded shotgun. …Except, you know, it's his fists and nothing lethal." When she points out that, technically, fists can kill people, he cocks his head and smirks. "Maybe. But my dad won't kill me, and I'm just hoping that my face isn't still messed up when I get back to school in January." She wrinkles her nose, scrutinizing him, and asks why that is. "Because I have a boy. …I mean, I do if he'll still have me and he hasn't gone packing back to Bible camp for Christmas."

As he makes his way through this sangria and another one, he tells Tessa about Castiel and his blue eyes, and the infuriating but endearing way that he doesn't ever seem to understand people, and how crazy he is about the library and organizing his books, and how he's so stubborn but he has that air of someone who needs protecting (but not about the drugs, because he promised Cas he wouldn't talk about them) — "And it's insane, Tessa, I know it is — it has to be… but I've never felt like this for anyone before."

She pauses, and a teary look glimmers at the edge of her eyes before she tells him, "That's great, Dean, that's so… I'm happy for you."

He tilts his head and asks her, "What's up with you tonight? …The opera, the lying to me — you were driving like I do, for God's sake—"

"My dad found out," she says, her voice short and clipped; sighing, she yanks a ring box out of her jacket pocket. Inside sits a diamond engagement ring. "There was this guy up at school. He's a member of the congregation and he sort of… happened upon me and Anna. And first, he just blackmailed us — took a video of us having sex, and said that as long we didn't tell anyone about it and helped him with his homework, he wouldn't tell my dad." A sharp, sardonic smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "And then he told Dad anyway. So… now I'm engaged. To some family friend's son from Georgia… Dad really thinks this is going to fix me."

Dean says nothing, just finishes his drink and chucks the bottle at the open field. Once his hands are free, he takes Tessa in his arms and holds her; burying her face in his jacket, she hugs him back. Nuzzling the top of her head, he tells her, "There's nothing about you that he needs to fix."

Against his neck, she whispers, "Tell that to him."

"I will," Dean agrees. "I'll tell him that until he's blind and deaf."

She chuckles, but the laugh is not a happy one, the kind of laugh Dean wants to hear, and when it's gone, she says, "I hope your boy knows how lucky he is to have you, Dean."


	7. In Between Tonight And My Tomorrows

"Baaaaabe…"

Crowley hears the whining coming from his bedroom, and even looks down the corridor toward the open door, if just to roll his eyes at Gabriel's current round of antics. Granted, whining like a petulant child isn't as bad as what he could get up to, had the doctor Castiel got him to see not ordered him to keep his arse in bed, but it still gives Crowley cause to twitch. With a little huff, he turns his attentions back to folding up the laundry (because maybe Gabriel's content to just throw his things everywhere, but Crowley likes to have some semblance of order and civility around the house) — and Gabriel continues whining to him, "Baaaaaabe! …Aaaaaaaay Jaaaaaaaaaaay. …I'm sick and I'm tired and I'm all aloooooooooooone. You should come heeeeeeeere."

"You're going to be even sicker and more tired if you keep that up," Crowley informs his boy with an intentionally patronizing lilt at the end. Taking one of Gabriel's ridiculous novelty t-shirts, one of the ones with the cartoon frogs that he procured when they took spring break in Mexico last year, Crowley tunes Gabriel's piteous chorus out in favor of making sure that he gets the creases just the way he likes them, even knowing that Gabriel will probably just throw it on the floor anyway. After five more minutes of the whining, Crowley sighs and calls down the hall, "You know, Gabriel, there is a rest in bed-rest. So why don't you try doing that — you know, resting, recuperating, actively putting in effort toward making yourself not sick — instead of just going on at me about how sick you are?"

"Because that's boooooring," Gabriel replies as though this should be more than obvious, and, from the sound of it, rolling around in the bed with the intent of making a godawful mess. "Babe, come ooooon. I can't go get in trouble because my freaking lungs are inflamed — you should come and entertain me."

Shaking his head, Crowley moves his laundry basket up onto the sofas, since the puppy Gabriel's insisted on keeping in the house can't jump high enough to get there yet, and goes to sit against the headboard. Gabriel's turned over on his side, hacking up one of his aforementioned inflamed lungs in the direction of the floor. Idly, Crowley reaches out a hand to rub up and down his back. "See, this is why I told you to rest, love," he points out, getting a garbled, slurred, and half-unintellgible fuck your face in response — not that the sentiment hangs around that long. Not a minute later and Gabriel's head is nuzzling into Crowley's lap.

"So what do you think about Castiel's boyfriend?" Gabriel asks, speaking softly as Crowley strokes his fingers through his boy's hair.

"Number one, I thank whatever amorphous supernatural entity is out there that Castiel didn't describe him as such." Crowley inhales deeply, and keeps his exhalation meditative; there's no reason to get vitriolic, at the moment. "Number two, personally, I'm just glad that our little Castiel's finally reaching outside the box of his father's ridiculously homophobic oppression and I especially wouldn't mind it if this got him to take less Adderall because anyone with half a brain knows he has a problem. But number three — I think that he could do so much better than bloody Dean Winchester."

Gabriel seems to consider this a moment, but instead, he just rubs his cheek into Crowley's thigh and purrs. "I love it when you talk like a stereotypical Brit. It almost makes up for the fact that I'm switching between fevered and clammy so fast I can't keep up."

Crowley chuckles and musses Gabriel's hair. Taking a translucent orange bottle out of his trousers pocket, he whispers, "Come on, angel. It's antibiotics time."


	8. Living Just To Find Emotion

"When's your flight?"

Dean swallows thickly as he turns to face his father; John Winchester slouches into the doorway of Dean's room. Giving the man a nod, Dean answers, "Tomorrow morning. Mom's taking me to the airport," and turns back to his packing. The clothes he needs to take back east need to get put in order — and he just blows at having things in order, even without the slimy feeling in the air as soon as Dad takes two heavy steps into the room. There's none of the familiar whiskey scent, or anything else that he associates with Dad, just the stagnated air that comes when the heat's running but there's no airflow in the house — and still Dean wonders what he's done this time. His broken nose has healed, and the busted cheek he got two days after New Year's, when he stepped between Dad and Sam — and with each of Dad's footfalls, Dean feels his breath hitch in his throat or shudder out.

His heart's racing like Seabiscuit when he hears: "Sammy told me you've got some new friend. At the library?"

"Yes, sir." Dean nods and folds up the Skynyrd shirt he stole out of Dad's laundry once in high school, after he got a broken wrist for Christmas. "His name's Cas. His dad's the campus pastor." This conversation should end now — Dean's pulse pounds so hard he's sure his chest will just give up and explode. He isn't even looking at his father, into those hazel eyes that have shown him both love and hate through their time together, and still he gets the sensation like bugs crawling under his skin and some unseen hound gnawing at the inside of his stomach. This always happens when he tries to lie.

"Jeez, Dean," Dad goes on, oblivious, or willfully ignorant. "First Tessa, then Anna, now this Cas guy — I swear, what is it with you and preachers' kids?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. It's just…" The souvenir shirt from his first concert trembles in his hands. (It was Metallica, when he was sixteen and snuck Tessa and Anna out to come with him because the tickets were the only things he got that Christmas. Even through the time that's passed and whatever Mom used to wash it, fingering the black cotton makes Dean remember the smell of beer and cigarette smoke.) Before he thinks to stop himself, the words start spilling out: "Cas is special, I guess. I mean, we didn't start out liking each other — we snapped at each other a lot, but he grew on me, and then we were reshelving books this once and he kissed me, and he didn't want to tell anyone because his dad is like…"

For the first time, Dean feels Dad's hand clenching on his shoulder. As he turns, Dean expects a smack or a punch; he flinches until he notices the muscular arms around his shoulders, pulling him into Dad's chest — but it isn't supposed to happen like this; he always thought that coming out wouldn't go at all well… There's supposed to be shouting, drinking, empty beer bottles getting flung at his head and just barely missing… Dad's supposed to kick him out, cut him off, not… Thoughts going too fast for him to process right, lungs twisting and turning like they might try to claw their way out of him, Dean does the only thing he can: leans into his father's chest and wraps his arms around Dad's shoulders. He bites on his lower lip as he leans his head into Dad's neck, trying not to cry, but he hiccups, and the tears come anyway as the stubble grates against his skin.

"It's okay, Dean," John whispers, patting Dean's back. "It's okay."

He waits until the tears stop before leading Dean downstairs; they don't tell Mom, and dinner isn't forced or full of awkwardness. It's been too long, Dean thinks, since he's had the chance to remember what Dad's like when he's sober.

Uncle Zachariah Adler is not related to Castiel by blood, a fact that the boy thanks God for every time Irene, his father's sister, and her husband darken their doorstep. Even when the sunlight reflects off the white BMW as it pulls into the driveway, gleams right into Castiel's eyes and briefly blinds him, he's just grateful that, if he thought he could get away with it, he could disavow the jerk uncle with the bald spot who has a patronizing remark for every situation. Straightening the tie his father's made him wear, Castiel welcomes in his relatives, leaning down to take a kiss on each cheek from Aunt Irene (who coos, "Oh, Castiel, you look so thin," drawling the last syllable of his name) and a clap on the shoulder from Zachariah ("He's just been working hard at school, haven't you, boy?").

Castiel supposes that he has been, and he bites his tongue through most of dinner; whenever one hand is free, he scratches at his knee, trying to keep himself awake. He's slept more than enough, this break, but there's been no apparent need to stay up all night, and it's been days since he took an Adderall. The steak rests uncomfortably in his stomach, as though it's come from the dining hall and not his father's talented hand, but it doesn't bother him nearly as much as the stories from his aunt and uncle's Christmas trip to Rome.

"Of course, it might have been nicer to go for Easter," Zachariah explains, and Castiel's free hand itches to punch him in the smarmy, cracked grin. Knocking his teeth out might just complicate things, but Castiel's also certain that it would satisfy him. "But the Vatican gets mobbed for Easter — Catholics from all over gather up in a flash mob. Besides…" With a smile that looks like a smirk, he squeezes his wife's hand, "Irene just had to see the Christmas decorations." As soon as he can, Castiel begs off to his room. He dry swallows a pill and fusses with the details of his appearance — going at the tie again, brushing nonexistent loose threads off his shoulders — until Dad shepherds him into the study.

Dad, Zachariah, and Aunt Irene all take glasses of wine; Castiel just fidgets with his hands and listens to more stories from his Aunt and Uncle's Roman holiday, until… "You know, the only thing that we had any real trouble with was these fag protestors—"

"Zachariah," Aunt Irene warns, arching an eyebrow and downing the rest of her third drink.

"I'm sorry: these gay, lesbian, bisexual, and tranny protestors," the bastard corrects himself, and Castiel has to clench his fingers on his chair's plush armrest, just to give himself something else to focus on. "You know, I've always enjoyed Dante, and Irene wanted to see the Uffizi, so we took a few days in Florence, and for the most part, it was just perfect — couldn't have asked for more. …Until these radicals started having some protest march outside of San Martino while we were trying to leave the Casa di Dante — and when I say radicals, I don't just mean those two lipstick dykes who're in charge of Harvelle's queer club, Paul. We're talking like shaved heads, men trying to pass as women, glitter — and they're just traversing through the streets, shouting some creative obscenities at everyone…"

As his uncle continues blathering, Castiel turns his eyes to Dad. He searches his father's face for some kind of a reaction, anything beyond an odd quirk of the eyebrow or a knowing nod — his stomach writhes around as he prays to find any show of disapproval, or judging Zachariah, or of wishing that he would just shut his mouth and keep it shut. Nothing comes up. Swallowing thickly, Castiel looks to the carpet between his feet. When school's back in, he ought to break things off with Dean; it's just easier for both of them if they're not together. Or whatever they've been until now.

Bela sighs. As soon as the office door thunks on the wall, she smells his scotch and although she bristles at the sounds of his heavy footfalls, she does not startle; all she does is turn her attention back to the papers she needs to put in order. Her parts in the Gay-Straight Alliance fundraisers and events need to get organized before she returns to Jo, so then they can collaborate and make more concrete plans. Bela hates the way her inhalation shakes, and she feels her father's hand, so smooth and with so firm a hold, wrapping on her shoulder; even without him speaking, she can hear that voice like tires on an unpaved road, hissing, Come on, little Abby. Show Daddy what you can do with those whore lips of yours…

"Bela?"

She whips around, eyes wide, clutching the perfectly ordered papers to her chest — and then she glances down into her foster mother's loving eyes, the same kind smile that she wore when they filed Bela's adoption papers, and the ones that changed her name from Abigail Baty to Bela Talbot.

Bela's lips curve into a show of genuine affection and her Mother tells her, "Your father's ready to drive down to Joanna's, sweetheart."

Tessa shudders, and she wishes very much that she never had to open her eyes; the smooth fabric of the dress holds her in an antagonistic closeness, and when she does honor her mother's requests — "Come on, Tessa! Just a peek — you know, it's the groom who's not supposed to see you in the dress yet…" — she can hardly see her reflection through the veil. She hardly needs to. She knows that it'll just look wrong, and for more reasons than the dress being deathbed white. Sue-Ann Le Grange comes to stand behind her daughter and lifts the veil off her face — not without some difficulty, considering the six inches Tessa has on her when she's in her bare feet. The white heels pinch her feet, and she towers over her mother.

"Don't look so upset," she murmurs, brushing wayward hairs off of Tessa's shoulders. "Mama's little nightingale… Scott's such a lovely young man, and his parents are good. people." Abruptyl, Sue-Ann pauses. Tessa feels her frown deepen, and she squirms beneath the scrutiny as her mother's eyes trace down her face. "…Why don't we do a reading, darling?"

Tessa nods. She follows her mother into the study, sits at the card table and shuffles Mom's old Rider-Waite; once she's satisfied, she lays out the Celtic cross spread. The first card that Mom turns over is Death.

The silver crucifix necklace weighs Anna down, hunching her shoulders over the dinner table, and the skin beneath it tingles as though it might catch flame; Deacon Rich Milton keeps eyeing it as though he thinks it will, as though what his daughter's done with Reverend Roy's daughter — what they kept secret for so long before that blackmailing happened — has turned her into some kind of demon and can never be forgiven. It's worse than pointing out the irony of their family being Catholic over Easter dinner with Father Patrick, the way she did in her junior year at Lawrence High, not three days after the first time she'd felt Tessa's tongue inside her — she still remembers that diatribe, hears its words mulling around in her head, I mean, for all the obvious religious dialogues that exist in Paradise Lost, Milton sided with Oliver Cromwell and the Puritans, and Satan's palace of Pandemonium is obviously meant to resemble a Catholic church…

She swallows thickly, nearly choking on her own anxiety, not to mention her dinner. No one expected anything about her and Tessa, then. Now, Anna keeps her eyes down, looking for the secret to life, the universe, and everything in her peas, her chicken, and her mashed potatoes; she knows she'll never find it, but her cheeks feel hot enough without meeting her parents' eyes. Her gaze stays locked on the table, until she hears her father's announcement: "So, Amy. Anna. …Father Pat and I've been talking — about this lesbian thing our daughter's gotten herself into…" Trembling, Anna raises her eyes; her father acknowledges this with a nod, and continues: "He thinks an exorcism might be the only way to go about fixing it."

Anna's fork clatters to her plate. "A-a-a… what?" she stammers. A wave of nausea hits her, and she stares at her father; he only shrugs; she glances to her mother instead, looking for some kind of uncertainty, any indication that she doesn't approve of this plan.

Amy Milton shrugs. "It might not be a bad idea, sweetheart," she whispers. "You haven't been yourself, we've both seen it…"

"Dad, please—"

"She's not been herself, you've noticed it, too, right, Rich?"

"Of course I have, darling — and Father Pat's booked solid until early spring, but he's agreed to help us out—"

Without asking for permission, Anna shoves her chair away from the table. She all but dashes to her room and locks the door behind her; she slumps against it for a moment, and doesn't let the tears come up until she's on her bed, clutching her ragged pink teddy bear to her chest and whispering, "God damn it… an exorcism, just a… a fucking exorcism?" This never would've happened had she or Tessa gotten pregnant.

The question gobsmacks Crowley, and as soon as he's processed his own surprise, he can't believe that it caught him off his guard. Trying (and failing) to shake himself around (and revitalize his vocabulary and vocal chords in the process, one hopes), he stares down the dinner table at his parents, his tall, balding father and his mother with her heel shoes and dyed red ringlets. "Alexander," Mother repeats herself with an affectionate shake of her head. "I said, when are we going to meet this Gabriel boy that you've been seeing?"

"Soon, soon, I…" Crowley pauses, hearing a whining noise around his ankles, the one that means Gabriel's favorite pup needs to go outside. "I'll be right back."

As he escorts the little creature to the backyard, Crowley sighs. He leans against the wall and waits for the dog to handle itself, wondering where Gabriel thinks he can get off, wanting to drag Castiel out of the closet. Fussing with his phone, Crowley pauses, reading over an old sext from his boy, one that brightened up the day he got it: prof's talking about heteronormativity in the media. good thing you're sick today, I'd jizz my pants if you were here. Does this count as a kink? "Come out, come out, wherever you are," Crowley mutters, staring out the window at the kennel instead. "Unless your name is Gabriel Lyesmith."

After the pneumonia-contracting shenanigans, and after they return from Bali, Gabriel mostly avoids his parents. It's nothing personal, and they make it easy on him. Dad has work meetings, Mom has business at the church with Cas's asshole father, and Gabriel has pills, his boy, and, once the illness clears up, he has a bottle of Jameson from Mom's brother out in San Francisco. He also has a series of heated texts and calls from Bela, demanding that he get his shit together soon or, so help her, she will carve out his liver and cook it for her and Jo's anniversary. "I'll serve it with a nice chianti, too," she snaps on their last call. "For the full Hannibal Lecter effect."

Gabriel throws his drink back and doesn't mind the burn. "I kinda think I'd go better with cognac."

"I don't give a damn what you'd go better with! Get your presidential, student activities-running arse going and honor the promises you gave me and Jo about coordinating the GSA events and our club's involvement in the Bacchanalia."

Rolling his eyes, he sighs, "How's the detached retina?"

"It wasn't detached, and it's fine. Can you walk without wanting to fall over yet?"

"Oh, please, Princess. My boyfriend knows how to fuck me properly."

"That's excellent," Bela says, and her voice sounds far too chipper. "If you want him to keep doing so? I'd suggest you get off his prick, get off my nerves, and get on this assignment."

The line goes dead without enough room for Gabriel to argue back — why do all his friends have such a last word-seeking complex? Stretching out as he goes, Gabriel gets off his bed and meanders down the hall to Mom's office; he can smell her crisp peppermint schnapps even before he knocks on the door, and Dad's probably at the bar with his corporate suit coworkers. He doesn't wait for her to drawl, Come in, just does so. The smile she shoots up at him is so crooked it might fall off her face, and her string of family heirloom pearls hangs off her neck at an odd angle; her lipstick's faded where she presses her lips against the glass.

"Whatever does your little heart desire, sweet thing?" She's tried so hard, he knows, to speak like their fellow WASPs, but from the way her Louisiana brogue and inflection are slipping up, Gabriel thinks she must've had four drinks by now.

"I just got off the phone with Bela," he explains, sitting down on the edge of her desk. "We could use a charitable donation for the GSA."

Mom asks no questions; just writes and signs a check made out to "Cash" and instructs Gabriel to fill it out as he and Bela decide they need to. As he tries to stand, though, she takes him by the wrist; she pulls him back to sitting and slithers her long, bony fingers down his cheek. "I just wish you'd find it in you to let your father know, dearest. Your Alexander's such a nice boy."

"Yeah," Gabriel agrees, keeping silent his thought of, Like that'll ever happen. He'd sooner dive naked into a pit of really pissed off scorpions — but as he leans down to kiss her cheek, Gabriel just lets Mom think what she wants.

Ellen tries not to blink when she finds the black lacy panties under the cushion of the living room sofa. She says nothing about the bra that turns up on the lamp, the one that is definitely not Jo's because first of all, Ellen's daughter doesn't wear a C-cup, and second, Jo would not wear magic eight ball prints on her chest. By the time she sees a series of stains along the floor and various other fixtures, Ellen is suspicious, but she doesn't sigh until she gets into the kitchen and sees the mess: a bottle of chocolate syrup and a can of whipped cream sit, toppled over, on the floor, surrounded by an interesting array of both their contents and Jo's boyshorts with the rainbow decal on the ass.

"JOANNA BETH!" Ellen bellows to the rest of the house, impressed her own self when it echoes back at her. "What in the Hell did I tell you and Bela about leaving your toppings out all damn night?"

Ellen rolls her eyes at the fits of giggling that she hears as the girls come downstairs. She loves the two of them, and even hugs both delinquents good morning, but Ellen Harvelle works too damn hard to clean up after twenty-one-year-olds who really ought to know better.

"MOM! Sara took my unicorn!"

"DAD! Lily won't share with me!"

"Parental units, will you please shut the squirts up! I can't focus on my Borges reading — and it's for school!"

"Oh, please, Carrie, like you've ever read anything for school…"

"Shut your fucking mouth, May!"

"Chuck," Frederick Shurley sighs, "can you go and investigate what's taking the girls so long?"

Chuck furrows his brow and looks from his dad to his mom, then to their new neighbors, Jonah and Rachel Rosen, who sit on the living room sofa, all smiles with his head on her shoulder. Their daughter hasn't gotten here yet, and as he trudges up the stairs to check on his little sisters, Chuck wonders if having just one is any easier than having four. He spends fifteen minutes going between the girls' rooms, each time getting yelled at or having something thrown at him; when he descends again, he sneaks into the kitchen and breaks out the scotch Dad thinks he's kept hidden well, even though he hides it behind Mom's peach schnapps. As he's pouring a glass, Chuck startles at the sound of the screen door slamming on the wall and a heavy set of shoes stumbling in; some of the amber liquid spills on the counter.

Whipping around, Chuck finds himself face-to-face with a girl who wears, despite the piles of snow outside, a green-and-blue tartan skirt that hits above her knees. Her dirty blonde hair goes well past her shoulders, and underneath her pink parka, he sees a sweatervest in their school's shade of green (with an apparently home-made white emblem of the Harvelle Badger on the chest). Her blue eyes are wide as she gives him an uncertain glance.

"…This is the Shurley place, right? …I mean, my parents gave me the directions, but I was down at Turner's for the release party of the latest installment in my favorite yaoi series, and I haven't really figured out the streets here yet and… oh…" A huge grin leaps onto her face and her hand shoots out toward his. "I'm Becky, by the way."

Chuck arches an eyebrow at her, and then extends his hand. "…Chuck."

Her eyes dart down to the Harvelle badge on his shirt. "…Have I seen you at school before? …Animanga Anonymous meetings?"

"It was just the one, I think… the time when you guys showed Akira? …I mean, I'm not, like… really into anime, but that's just such a great—"

Becky beams at him as she shrieks, "I LOVE AKIRA!"

They talk for so long that Dad comes in to make sure Chuck hasn't gone and exploded himself with the oven. Once Fred's content that his son is fine, Chuck asks Becky out for coffee; she says yes.

When she gets back from the airport, Sam avoids Mom for a while; sending Dean back east to school never goes well, resulting in tears, and sensitivity, and clinging, and the answerless question, What am I gonna do when you go out to California, Sammy? All he can think of to say is that he's not a guaranteed in at Stanford yet — he couldn't apply early decision, not when Dad harangued on and on about money and how they didn't have it, and not when Mr. Pepper in the college counseling office kept telling Sam to look at other options — and it never calms Mom down any.

He finally joins her when she's folding up the laundry; sitting beside her on the sofa, Sam does what he can to help her out. Maybe Dean's never liked this chore, but as he tries to get the creases in Dad's sleeves right, Sam can't see what makes this such a "chick thing," and hey, if liking his clothes to look presentable makes him less of a man, then he's okay with that. At least he'll look less like Mister "I just rolled out of bed and grabbed whatever smelled clean enough" Winchester and more like he gives a shit. Sam adds his stack of handiwork to the basket at his and Mom's feet, and pauses his reaching for something new when he feels her stroke his cheek and cup his jaw.

"Your dad's going out to a hockey game with the other guys from the garage," she says. "What do you say to a day out for just us?"

Sam licks his chipped lips and takes his phone out of his hip pocket. As he agrees that it sounds good, he taps out a text to Ruby, asking if she's free tomorrow instead.

Even with the lights turned off, the pyramid of translucent orange bottles against Castiel's wall glitters in the glow from his TV. This first night back on campus brought him a snow-covered Dean — case of beer in hand, the white stuff falling off his hair, his boots, and leather jacket, he just showed up with a smile and some slasher horror flick that he'd brought from home. Sighing, Castiel empties his fourth bottle and adds it to their heap. They'll probably accumulate enough to split a muffin at the campus coffee bar, once they return the empties to the Stop-N-Shop down the road. Neither he nor Dean has said a thing about the rattling sound that came when Castiel let his jeans fall to the floor; they just sit together on Castiel's bed, Dean in jeans and Castiel in his boxers, backs pressing into the wall and the case at their feet.

As he cracks open another — number five to Dean's sixth — and as the scantily clad, promiscuous girl finds her head lobbed off by a chainsaw, Castiel slumps into Dean's shoulder, rubs his five o'clock shadow into the cotton of Dean's t-shirt. Dean's arm snakes around his shoulders and holds him closer than Castiel can remember being held by anyone, even Andy. Before he thinks too hard on this, Dean's fingers wrap around his arm and Castiel sighs. "I missed you," he whispers against Dean's neck, and the trembling in his voice surprises him; he had not thought that he'd missed Dean so much as that. But now, as it's out there and as he inhales Dean's scent of beer and books and gasoline, Castiel feels the shivering spread from his vocal chords to his muscles, to his spine and lung, and he knows that he presumed incorrectly.

Dean's fingers give Castiel a squeeze, then trail up to caress his cheek. "Did you eat at all over Christmas?" With this thrown out there, they fall into a kiss as though there's been years between their meetings, and not just a month; Castiel only separates from Dean so he can set their beers on the table by his bed. As soon as he has, Dean pulls their mouths together once more, jerking Castiel toward him. They tumble onto the mattress, and unlike the last time this happened, in the library, Dean places himself above Castiel, handling his head onto the pillows as though he's taking care of something fragile, something in which he doesn't want to put another crack. The skin of his fingers brushes — rough, warm, tender — up Castiel's side, sliding the white Oxford out of its tucked position; then Dean takes it slow, worming each button from its hole until he can run his hand down Castiel's pale, exposed stomach.

He shivers underneath Dean's hand, then pushes back, sitting up with the intent to knock Dean back and instead bringing them to a seated position, his ass on Dean's lap, Dean's erection already rubbing against his leg. They kiss in a fever of messy graspings, lips finding lips as though by accident as Castiel drops his hands to Dean's side, rips off the t-shirt and throws it aside; Dean shows more care with Castiel's clothing, ghosting his palms down Castiel's arms and shoulders as he removes the shirt, then tossing it to the floor without a care. Dean fumbles until Castiel is sans boxers (Dean's rough, worn denim brushes against his naked thighs), until his own jeans are undone and at the foot of the bed; he only barely remembers to get the lube from his pocket and as he slicks his cock, Castiel dives into a long, deep kiss, one that (he hopes) might leave Dean's lips bruised.

Castiel rides Dean slowly at first, sliding down with care, gasping as the initial pain subsides, as Dean fills him, then grinds his hips up into Castiel's, working deeper into him and dragging up a series of moans with his guttural grunts. In the midst of it, Castiel lets his head fall to Dean's shoulder and he mutters into Dean's neck, "I was going to break up with you tonight." An anxious thrust makes him fight for breath. "…My father. And my uncle. Over break." The kiss Dean flings into Castiel's Adam's apple is hot and wet and filled with the gnashing of teeth — Dean breaks no skin, but he makes his claim nonetheless.

"They don't know," Castiel assures him, snaking a hand through Dean's hair, falling back at the pleasure that ripples through him; he holds himself up with his hands on Dean's shins and one of Dean's arms at his back. Dean's fingernails scratch at his skin, and Dean's free hand takes Castiel's cock, working him up harder, faster, out of time with his thrusts but still feeling so right as his rough fingers pump up and down; the force from this straightens Castiel's back until he can collapse against Dean's shoulder, warm, sweaty skin of their chests meeting again and Castiel dragging his teeth down to Dean's clavicle. The heat between their bodies doesn't subside, even as Dean takes one of Castiel's wrists and presses a gentle kiss to the scar he finds there. "I'd never tell them, Dean. I wouldn't. …They don't suspect. …But they made me wish… I… Dean!"

As he comes, ejaculate spilling onto Dean's hand, Castiel grabs onto Dean's right shoulder — he digs his fingers into the skin, the flesh, the muscle, hard enough that his own groan finds punctuation in Dean's ragged yelp — Dean finishes quickly and as Castiel sinks onto his sheets and pillows, he's certain that, even if his green-eyed boy's lips recover from the assault waged on them, Dean will have a bruise tomorrow, right there on his shoulder, in the shape of Castiel's hand.

"I'm not quitting you," he answers the unvoiced concern, feeling Dean slink down next to him, warm breath caressing the back of his neck. "Even if I knew how to do it, I wouldn't want to." Dean responds with an arm draped around Castiel's waist, pressing his chest into Castiel's back and a trail of gentle kisses into his shoulders; Castiel drifts off to the sound of the movie's credits rolling.

Once he's sure that the boy in his hold is asleep, Dean leans over to kiss his cheek and whispers, "I love you, little darlin'."


	9. By the Wayside

Mary Campbell got hitched to John Winchester, an Indiana-born high school dropout, in the middle of June, 1988, not that long after finding out that she was pregnant. In their case, "getting hitched" was really more like eloping, but for as much as John wanted to get to know her parents, Mary wanted nothing to do with them and for them to have no say in what happened in her life and those of her unborn child's. They were up to their eyes in spells and amulets, hunting down monsters and killing things that lived in the darkest parts of the world, away from anybody's glimpsing — and after raising Mary in that life, without a constant group of friends who weren't her cousins, forever changing schools and at each one known as that girl who'd be hot if she weren't so weird, Samuel and Deanna Campbell didn't know why their little huntress wanted to get out of it.

If Mary hadn't left for John, she'd have left for something else, but there was something about the dashing would-be Marine with the dark eyes and darker swagger. Not that she didn't have her regrets about this course of action. When her first son came into the world on January twenty-fourth, 1989, she still named him Dean after her mother. And his brother, born May second, 1993, got named Sam for her father. It didn't matter that they were perpetual fugitives from the law, or that everybody thought that they were crazy, or that she'd raised several complaints about them during her lifetime: despite herself, she'd loved her parents.

Without them around to love, Mary built up her own family; eventually, when she and John settled in Lawrence, Kansas, she made lunches and baked pies and drove her boys to soccer practice and went to PTA meetings when she had the time. She'd do anything for her three boys, Mary Winchester, from laying down her own life to killing someone bloody, but they didn't get their simple life without its costs, and it wasn't a straight shot from the altar to the tableau right out of Grover's Corners, New Hampshire, written by Thornton Wilder, designed by Edward Hopper and the people at Better Homes and Gardens.

Mary sometimes wished it could have been that simple, but in her heart, she knew better. And in her heart, she wouldn't have traded those difficult years, all the loneliness, the struggling, and the fights for all the Perfect American Dreams she could buy after an hour of picking pockets.

She tried her best not to think about what she'd grown up doing so her parents wouldn't have to quit their hunting to kill and cook a deer. Ignoring the past got easier, she supposed, if only because the present kept throwing things in her path. In the summer of 1990, the only thought insisting on its presence in her mind was the desire to smack John stupid. Even after he shipped out, she could go through entire days — drop Dean off upstairs with the old Mrs Bernstein, who babysat him; work long hours at the diner, then hope for better tips at the high-end and well-to-do steakhouse in DC where she sometimes worked nights, pray like Hell that it never got so bad she considered stealing from the register, even though she knew she could; pick her baby up whenever she could and love him more than anything else — and the only recurring thought she'd have was that John had better live through the war if only so she could get the chance to remind him that he should've tried to find another job sooner.

If he hadn't made it back, Mary didn't know what she would've done. Probably called up as many of her parents' old contacts as she could reach until someone was fool enough to teach her how to make a zombie out of her husband's corpse. She might have tried to talk to it a while, or even let it have a last meal (cow organs, naturally, not human ones), but the only reason the John-zombie would draw any breath would have been for Mary to demand to know what he thought he was doing, getting killed in the Middle East when he had a wife and son to come back home to, who needed him, who wanted him around more than he could understand — and whether or not he'd answered, Mary would have killed him herself for thinking he could get forgiven for dying.

And for being a zombie, but since it wouldn't have been his fault, she wouldn't have held it against him. The natural order of things needed to be preserved once concerns got answered.

It might have made things more interesting, anyway; for all there was enough from day to day that held Mary's interest, some nights she'd put Dean to bed, sit down with the paper and a beer, as soon as he wasn't breastfeeding anymore, and look around for anything suspicious, even just a routine salt-and-burn. Sometimes, things turned up, and the only thing that kept her centered was heading over to her baby's crib, watching him sleep by the nightlight and the ambient light from outside the window. They were living in Virginia, then, in a shitty one-bedroom apartment that had been theirs since John had been stationed at Quantico during his training. They had a good life, even when Mary had to struggle to make ends meet, and it would get better, she told herself, when John came home. As far as the other young Marines and their wives in the building said, Mary got lucky. At least the Powers That Be didn't want to send John all over the goddamn world. At least they saw the makings of an officer in him and wanted him where he could learn from the best. At least the roof leaked, it got cold at the most inconvenient times, and all Mary wanted was to know why this whole Desert Storm business was necessary, but at least her little boy could know his Daddy was a hero.

Even with all that they had going for them, though ... sometimes Mary just couldn't shake the itch to go and hunt some supernatural creep for the sake of doing so. Sometimes, she'd be sticking a knife through the plastic on the night's microwave dinner, and the lights would hit the silver and they'd glint just right, and she'd wonder if any djinn were on the loose, or werewolves, or the like. Sometimes, wind rushing through their place would slam a door, and even holding Dean to her chest, even rubbing his little back and burying her nose in his hair, she'd be back on the site of her first hunt — she could swear that she smelled the dingy, moldy scent of that old house in Tennessee, hear the creaking floorboards and her mother shouting Mary! MARY! when the ghost they were hunting had come at her from behind, feel the heat from the fire and smell the singeing flesh and bones — and sitting in the rocking chair Dean loved so much, Mary would wonder if it would really be so bad for them, if she could go on just one hunt and still have their lives be normal.

She never left; she only waited, knowing she'd never forgive herself if anything came for Dean while she was lighting up a corpse for old times' sakes.

The night that John came back, Mary didn't manage to get time off either of her jobs. She and Dean got home from Mrs Bernstein's and nodded off on the sofa — not without dinner for the two of them, and a bath for Dean, and some cuddling in front of a tape of old Rocky and Bullwinkle episodes (one of John's favorites, one of the ways that he might as well have been there), but still, they wound up sleeping there. First, Dean curled his fingers up in the collar of Mary's t-shirt, put his head down on her shoulder, and closed his eyes. Then, Mary slipped off the flip-flops that she wore around their place and laid down, stretched to full length and nestled Dean against her, rubbed his back in little circles when he squirmed — she didn't mean to fall asleep, just thought that she'd give her eyes a break from staring at Sherman and Professor Peabody and their misadventures in the Wayback Machine...

And next thing she knew, she'd heard something creaking. Even all her time away from hunting couldn't dull Mary's reflexes; at the sound, she sprung out of sleep, stumbled to her feet and brandished the remote because it was the first thing her hands found that could make a half-assed weapon. She paused when her makeshift bludgeon found a target, just short of smacking John's neck with the red POWER button. Tightening the grip that kept Dean to her chest, she stared into John's eyes for a moment, thinking is it you? could it really be? they would've told me you were coming home, wouldn't they?

"Hey, baby?" he said with a bemused chuckle, grinning at her as if everything was perfect in the best of all possible worlds. "...You know they don't really turn guys into robots in the Marines, right? All that Manchurian Candidate stuff? ...It's just me."

The remote hit the floor, and with her free arm, Mary yanked John in as close to her as she could. She muffled her gasps against his neck, against the few days' old stubble that she'd make him shave sooner or later, and she kissed him — lower neck, then above his jugular, several times on his cheek, and then on his lips, deeply, as though this was the only way to keep him here with her. He let his duffel fall and wrapped both arms around her waist, gave her a squeeze and let two fingers stray under the hem of her shirt. As he held her, she didn't fight the tears that bubbled up, or the warm relief that spread in her chest, the way that all her muscles felt slack.

"Manchurian Candidate's about brainwashing," she hissed.

Turned out, they'd made him Corporal overseas, but now that he could leave, he didn't want to stay. Some friend of his, Mike Guenther, was getting out of the Corps too, and there were better things that they could go do, things that would get Mike home to his daughters, and John home to his wife and son, without the fear of getting shot to death. Mary doesn't even hesitate in agreeing. Before the month's out, they're packed up and headed off to Kansas, keeping Dean in her lap, in the front seat of John's Impala, nodding off to cassettes of Cream and Zeppelin — she wants to have a family now, somewhere far away from hunting and the Campbell legacy and the parents and cousins who could be dead now, for all she knows.

"... Gay?"

John nods. Leaning back in his armchair, he sighs, rubs at the thick stubble on his neck. "He didn't really put it like that, but that's how he was talking about this Cas guy, Mary." And that's just as well, he thinks. If his elder son is going to go for some guy now, then this Castiel Novak had best deserve Dean.

But Mary shakes her head, and John just lets the silence between them linger, watching her for any kind of hint as to what's going on inside her head. The empty Corona bottle next to him is all the alcohol he's had since Dean went back to school the other night, and it's not as though John would make something up. And it's not that he's trying to say that Dean's not the same Dean he's always been — well, maybe he's taller than the kid who got into Little League because his dad wanted him to, and he seems better suited to college than to high school—

"I know what you're trying to say, John," she interrupts, holding up a hand to shut him up. "First of all, it's easier to be concerned for how Dean's doing when you're not drunk—"

"And we're right back to the same old place — You know, it's probably a wonder Dean's as well off as he is. I mean, there's me, for one thing, but being gay in a small town? And in a red state—"

"We're back here because it's important." Something cold flares up behind her blue eyes, burning with the intent to warn him that if he tries anything now, he'll most likely regret it. "Neither of us know what Dean's been going through. But you can't help him if you're still carrying around your own demons."

"'s better he never played football, if you think about it now. They'd never let him live that down in the locker room—"

"John!" She locks her gaze on his, and over-enunciates each syllable: "Are. you. going. to. get. help?"

John sighs, and nods. He doesn't like it, but if it's cling to his pride or make sure that Dean gets through his troubles well enough...

High school, as far as Sam's concerned, should just be called Hell. Because that's what it is, he's certain — one-hundred percent so, without any room for a margin of error. You don't need one — even the TV knows it. Practically all the shows on these days come down to how hard it is to be a pretty, rich, white kid with problems (or a pretty, rich, white kid's token minority friend with problems). Maybe they're pretty, white, and troubled in the Upper East Side, or pretty, white, troubled, and focused around a sports team, or pretty, (mostly) white, troubled, and prone to singing pop songs that are strangely relevant to their problems. But none of them — the characters, the actors, the writers — have ever had to live in Lawrence, Kansas.

At the kitchen table, Sam slumps forward and stares out the window at a Technicolor view of what his life's going to be like if he doesn't get out of here: flat, boring, about as lively as a mausoleum. He rubs the bridge of his nose with half a mind to yank it off; instead, he pours himself an orange juice, opens up the translucent orange pill bottle he keeps hidden in his jacket pocket, dumps the contents of one pill into the glass. He's supposed to be doing his homework now, but Sam can't focus, not with Mom and Dad going on about Dean in the next room. So he downs the concoction, and it might work, except that he sees Ruby's car pull up at the other sidewalk.

Sam only wears a hoodie and one of his not-quite-winter-but-colder-than-fall jackets as he slinks out of the house and into Ruby's Mustang, the one she got when her older brother hopped on a bus and never came back. It's orange, and garish, and against the practically monochrome backdrop of mid-January, it's louder than its speakers, which unapologetically blast her rotating cast of CDs. Sam can still only pick out Muse and sometimes Nine Inch Nails, or maybe Hole and Garbage, because they have chick lead singers; all he really knows is that the music Ruby likes sounds so unlike the rock that he grew up with, that Mom, Dad, and Dean all love, and that they're so much better than The Beatles for what he and Ruby get up to.

Starting with a kiss — she runs the back of her hand down his arm, getting him to turn to her, and once she has his attention, nudging him down into a kiss — soft, at first; then deeper. She drags her teeth along his lower lip; one of his hands falls to the small of her back, the other to her hip; leaning over the space between the two seats, he yanks her up and tries to lose himself in the taste of her mouth. Not that it's all that special. She tastes like mouth, mostly. But underneath that, there's a little hint of smoke and ketchup.

"French fries for breakfast ... ?" Sam asks with a chuckle when she shoves him away, nestling back into his seat.

"Better than whatever my mom tried to make." Ruby shrugs, and puts the car back in drive, takes off down the block, going west toward ... something. Maybe Alan's, where she and Sam can hide out with someone who understands — someone who won't judge them, Ruby for trying to get out of her house however she can, even if it's through drugs instead, and Sam for needing something to take the edge off the pressure to be perfect. Maybe Brady's, or maybe they'll just go to school and smoke under the bleachers.

It's not as though it matters. Sam sighs and slouches further down in the seat — as far as his long legs will let him go, anyway. Once spring rolls around, he'll be out of here. He hopes.


End file.
